Neighbours
by Misspurpleroses
Summary: We are not friends. We are not enemies. We are simply neighbours. So why do I feel like I wanted...more? AU. Humanized characters. Rigleen.


_**We are not friends. We are not enemies. We are simply neighbours. So why do I feel like I wanted...more?**_

* * *

_~O~O~O~O~_

_Alternate Universe _

_Humanized characters_

_~O~O~O~O~_

* * *

My mother used to say to me to respect and love our neighbours. That we live in a large community and the only way to live a happy life is to love others, especially those living around you. And every day, I would hold on to her words, especially when I'm now living alone, facing the world on my own, supported only by the people around me.

It's tiring really, to be nice to every single one of your neighbours. It doesn't matter if they constantly kept you awake all night, or letting their kids screaming hysterically like the world is ending along the hallway or kept knocking on your apartment late at night asking ridiculous questions like, "Can I burrow some soap?" They are still your neighbours. Respect them. Love them.

Tiring, but so worth it. Why? Because getting to actually _know _the people living around me somehow made me feel a part of something special. It felt like I am a part of some big family. Like I'm not alone facing the hustle and bustle of the city that can swallowed you. Twin Peaks isn't a big city, but a city nonetheless.

So, know your neighbours. Respect them. Love them.

And maybe that's why I found myself outside his apartment.

My feet shuffled nervously against the carpeted floor. Ten minutes (no, it must have been hours, or maybe days?) must have passed, and if someone saw me staring at this wooden door, grumbling to myself, they would probably thought I've lose my mind. Maybe I have. I mean, why am I outside his door again?

We are not what you could say close friends. Actually, I don't know what we are, where our relationship stood. We are too close to be acquaintances, yet too far to be labelled as best friends. There were times when we bicker that escalated into a huge argument. He was stubborn as I was persuasive. He was dark and I was the light.

Total opposites.

But there were times, when it was only just _us_, he would be sweet as the whispered breeze in the evening.

It was rare to see him act as a gentleman like holding the doors, carrying your shopping bags, walks you to the door or even offers you his jacket on cold nights. But that's him for you, all unpredictable. All changing and confusing and it's so frustrating it makes me want to scream. One day, he would be beyond furious. He would kick here, slamming things there. And the next second he was a fragile child, ready to break at the slightest touch.

It took me years to finally understand him.

_Years_ to finally get the man who hid beneath sharp words and sarcasm.

_Years _to read his silent language and learn to compromised.

It took me forever learning about him. But there were times, even though how well I knew him, he was a stranger to me.

There were times when I wanted to hate him. I wanted to really lashed out and hurt him so much. Slice him, dice him, or maybe burn him alive. I don't care. I just wanted to hate him for making me felt so low on sunny days. I wanted to hate him for laughing at my miseries. I wanted to hate him for spitting venomous words that ripped my heart into two. I wanted to hate him. I still do. Yet—yet I can never do it.

And that's why our relationship, as Mordecai called it, _complicated. _Everything is complicated. I'm complicated. He is complicated. Even the smallest things between us can be so complicated, that some days I just wanted to pull my hairs out, packed my bags and leave.

And yet, I found myself outside his door.

I breathe in as much oxygen as I could, at least to calm my racing heart. Why am I so nervous anyway? I parted my lips, ready to speak and gosh I'm going to regret this, "Rigby?" I called out as my sweaty knuckles gently knocked on his door.

No one answered.

I knocked louder this time. I repeated his name with a louder voice, hoping he would me this time.

No one.

I was getting a bit annoyed. My arms were growing tired and numb. Before I had the chance to kick down his door, I heard a loud thump! Then, it was followed by a muffled 'coming'. Heavy footsteps were shuffling across the floor. When it reached the door, it stopped. "Who is it?" said Rigby, sounding tired and sleepy. I rolled my eyes. He was probably too lazy and sick to take a look through the peephole. "It's me, Eileen. I've brought something for you."

He groaned as if in agony from the other side. The clicks and squeaks echoed across the hallway as Rigby began twisting and turning the locks and latches from his door. The door opens, but was stopped abruptly. I stifled a laugh at the sound of the golden, metal chain jingled. Growling, Rigby slammed the door closed.

Years of living in this apartment, and he always does this every morning. At first, it had always disturbed me, having numerous locks at his door. Now, it sends a wave of comfort and familiarity. The door finally opens, revealing a sickly looking Rigby. He was wearing a red shirt and a pair of boxers. With that wild, sexy, I-just-got-out-of-bed look, and I tried my hardest not to blush.

Unfortunately, Rigby noticed and grinned mischievously. "Love the view?" he teased, wiggling his brows.

"Loving it Mr. Squarepants." I teased back, pointing at his Spongebob Squarepants underwear, hoping to distract him as well as myself. His eyes darted downwards and his face immediately went scarlet.

"Ha ha Eileen." he said, hiding his embarrassment.

I smirked knowing I've won this little 'battle' of ours. But there would be more. With Rigby, there's always more.

"Whatcha got there Eileen?" he questioned, eyeing the tray I was carrying. On the tray, there was a huge bowl of steaming, delicious chicken soup. His favourite.

I trust the tray forward, "Oh, I almost forgot. This is chicken soup." I shifted my eyes away to avoid eye contact, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"It's for you. You know, for your cold."

He sniffed and wiped the dripping mucus with his arm. That was disgusting. Slowly, his lips curved upwards until he gave me his warmest smile.

"Thanks Eileen. You didn't have to. I mean, I'm getting better."

"Yeah, but I wanted to." I handed him the tray once again, so he could go back inside doing whatever 'manly' stuff he wanted to do so I could calm my heart that will never ever stop racing every time I see this jerk face who lo—

_—loathed _not love. Definitely not love.

"Don't be such a stranger. Come inside and put it in the kitchen." Casually, he stepped aside and motioned me to come in. And just like that, he gave me no excuse to escape.

I groan playfully, "You're just lazy."

He then smirked and gave me a wink, "Maybe I am."

Rolling my eyes, I stepped into his apartment. The chicken soup was still hot. Funny, since I probably took hours gathering all my courage and pride to knock on his door. His kitchen counter was a bit messy. After cleaning up the chip crumbs and spilled orange juice, I placed the tray gently on the counter. Other than that, there's nothing much to do here really.

"Wanna play some video games?" I offered.

Rigby only groaned in pain.

"Come on, I promise I won't use any cheat moves or—" I stopped because not only Rigby wasn't listening to me, he had his back against me. Feeling curious, I moved slowly towards the couch where he sat, whimpering. His large hands were gripping his head tightly. His fingers would pinch the bridge of his nose. I circled around the couch. Rigby's forehead was creased. His muscles were tensed.

"Getting better huh?" I muttered to myself.

Rigby's sensitive ears must have heard me. Clenching his jaw he said, "The headaches comes in once in a while. No worries." Sweat dribbled down his cheeks.

"It'll go away eventually." Rigby lets out a small cry of pain. Immediately I found myself behind him.

My fingers brushed against his soft, brunette hair. Placing them at either side of his temple, I began to move my fingers in a slow circular motion. Rigby moaned softly. Slowly, his shoulders dropped. He loosened the death grip on his head and let his body relax. My thumbs messaged his scalp and Rigby let out a contented sigh. It was quiet for a while. But it was not an awkward quiet. It was nice, comforting silence that can never swallows you. It embraced us as we enjoy each other's company.

"Dang, this feels too good," he whispered.

I smiled even though he can't see it. I wanted the quietness again. I wanted to wrap myself around that wonderful feeling. But, I can't help myself from being a little motherly, "Did you took any pain killers recently?"

"No. I was too sick to buy them," he tiredly replied, eyes still closing. I grumbled. He could just ask me to buy some. I practically lived just downstairs! I even had this whole medicine box filled with—

My fingers went standstill. Thinking fast, I ran towards the door.

"Hey! Where are going?" he yelled, startled at my sudden leaving.

"Getting you medicine!" I shouted back.

* * *

_~O~O~O~O~_

* * *

I grabbed everything. All the medicines that cured just about anything. Sore throats. Muscle aches. High fever. Flu. I shove them all in the pocket of my hoodie. While I did this, I realised I'm angry. Angry at **him**. Annoyed for his stubborn attitude. Frustrated he would even **think** of lying to **me. **

"Curse him and his ego," I muttered.

But like I said: No matter how angry I am, I would still be helping him. I would lash out on him and he would bite me in the neck. But in the end, we would go back to each other. One of us will apologize and things went normal afterwards, and that is until someone decided to start another war. The cycle repeats. It's complicated and I know it is.

I climbed the stairs again and dashed into his apartment to find him-

-not on the couch.

Confused, I placed the medicine on the kitchen counter. I was gone only for a few minutes and he just disappeared just like that? I know he was worried when I suddenly left, but he would not wander around looking for me, would he? He was sick after all.

A moment of sudden panic rose in me. What if he got hurt? Trip or fell? Broke his arm or-

My train of thoughts were halted hearing the splashing sounds from the bathroom.

_Of course._

He's sick with a monster headache. He's too weak to go anywhere. I hated myself for overreacting. "_**Think**__, Eileen. Don't let your emotions get the best of you."_

Rigby was heaving heavily into the toilet bowl. He grips it tightly until his knuckles were white and pale, as he forcibly emptied his stomach. His hair was drenched in cold sweat and his body was shaking violently. I pushed my feelings away, feeling neither pity nor sympathy.

I've seen him in this situation before, and not because he was sick.

Rigby used to love coming home late at night. Partying, he says. Rigby, the so called party animal, would dance and drink all night no matter where the party is. Sometimes with his best friend Mordecai or with his other friends like Muscleman or High Five Ghost. A cab would dropped him off and Rigby was left stumbling, almost pathetically, to climb up the stairs towards his apartment. There were some days he would knock on the wrong door, and occasionally, it would be mine.

I was too tired to argue. Too sleepy to carry him upstairs. So I let him in and gave the couch for the rest of the night. But Drunk Rigby would never let me rest _just like that. _He was a real devil in his drunken state. He would make sure my night was hell. But I shrugged them all off. When Rigby made a mess, I would clean up without complaining. He throws a tantrum, and I would calm him with soft words. He would cry and I would hold him like a mother holding her child. And he would even say things to me. Drunk things. Some were weird or hurtful. Some were ridiculously funny and while some were—

_I like you Eileen. A lot._

—unbelievable, impossible.

Then he woke up. Sober. I would have to leave for work by then. But, I would always leave some painkillers and a glass of water on the coffee table. He chugged them down and left as if he had never been there. We never spoke about it. Obviously, it was a subject we silently agreed not to be discussed. As many weeks passed by, he slowly stopped coming home at three in the morning. He stopped knocking on my door, begging for attention.

He just stopped.

And I never felt so lonely that night. Waiting and longing for his presence.

As his bad habits faded, he grew nicer, well as nice as Rigby could manage. I guess it was his way of saying thank you. He never said it out loud. Rigby is not a man of words. He is a man of actions. So he thanks me, by letting me into his life.

"Ugghh, my head head," Rigby groaned.

I snapped back to reality. It was a nightmare just by looking at him. His eyes were bloodshot. His face is filthy just as his shirt. I tried my hardest not to look away. Rigby then lifted himself up, dragging his body until he sat upright against the bathroom wall. He then waits.

There were no words needed. I understood that this is where I came in. I reached for a clean hand towel, soaked it with tap water and began cleaning him.

On those drunk nights, cleaning him up usually left me feeling cold, angry and disgusted. Now, I felt so much sorrow. This is not the Rigby I know. He looked so fragile and broken. So helpless and weak. My heart cries out for him.

Rigby lifted his eyes slowly as I ran the towel gently across his perfect lips. "Thanks, Eileen," Rigby weakly said.

"Don't mention it." I would take care of him just like always. But like always, in the morning, we would pretend this never happened. We, no, **he **would go back hating me and I would smile and laugh to hold back the tears.

"Because that's what neighbours are for."

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**A/N: **I wrote this when it was like what? 2 or 3 in the morning? My brain is so weird late at night. Or morning? Well, you read it. Cry with it. Laugh with this one shot. Now click that little button to review and tell me what you think about it! Thank you! Your words mean a lot to me.


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